


Summer's on its death bed.

by Alexander_Slamilton



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Depression, Graphic Description, Happy Ending tho, I mean, M/M, but its there, enjy is passively suicidal, ghost!R, i mean its not awful, ish, of bullet wounds, yeah - Freeform, yeah this is really angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 12:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10020842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Slamilton/pseuds/Alexander_Slamilton
Summary: Instead of Marius, Enjolras survives the barricades; he had most of the Guardsmen on his back, hunting him, he has tried to leave the country but can't bring himself to leave the country where all of his friends are buried. Grantaire finds himself looking at someone sleeping on what he knows is his grave, though the man can't hear anything he says; Grantaire can't remember anything either." “Enjolras,”  he gasped, the realisation spiking through him like a red hot poker, “Enjolras, it can’t be.” He saw in his mind’s eye, a firing squad of guardsmen, cornering them against a window. He saw the bright flashes as the guns fired and felt his muscles tense as he pushed Enjolras out the window, flinging himself into the line of fire. He smelled the smoke and gunpowder as he felt the bullets pierce him, white hot and angry as they dug themselves in to his flesh. “Enjolras. Mon Ange. Mon Apollo.” "





	

Winter fell on Paris, gripping the city in her claws, refusing to let go; Enjolras walked the cold streets alone with no Courfeyrac to keep his hand warm; no Combeferre at his side to lead the way; no Joly to make his flu better. No friends. Not anymore. He was alone, with only the wind for company. He walked the streets, but only at night, he was wanted and the whole country would know his name and face. He knew the route to Montmartre so well he didn't even need to focus on where his feet were taking him. The wind whipped up old posters, and flyers; they swarmed about him like flies, smelling his guilt and his failure. His failure, he was the one who had lead all of his friends to their deaths, he could see each and every one of them in his head when he closed his eyes. He sometimes saw them, spoke to them as though they were there, but he knew in his heart they were where he could not follow. The branches of the leaves chattered as they were thrown together by the wind that whistled and howled down the wide streets; rain was slapping him in the face, he pulled his scarf further up his face, so it covered his nose. No birds swooped through the darkening sky, the sun was hidden too, making it safe enough for him to wander through the streets earlier than he had for a while, not even the rats paid him any mind as his shoes crunched on some gravel.  
  
Montmartre, where the faces of the dead winked and cackled at him from behind the pale marble eyes of the statues on their graves. Montmartre, where the wind howled through corridors of bones, and the sun never seemed to properly shine, where a mist hung over the stones, hiding them from the eye of heaven. Montmartre where Grantaire was, except this time he wasn't there for a painting or to get drunk, this time it was his place of permanent residence. Ranae’s grave was simple, a small white stone with a small figure on it, though Enjolras hoped that he would have liked it. He found it, tucked between two larger family tombs, he curled up by it and rested his head by the angel.  
  
“I tried to leave again, Ranae, I really did. I got to Calais this time, but the ship left without me. I stood on the docks and watched it sail out of the port. So now I am back, and all I want to do is join you, wherever you are.” Enjolras felt tears slipping down his face, hot and wet and unstoppable. “Every time I’ve tried to leave, one of you has stopped me, I could feel it. Tugging on my gut. I know you’re here. I know you didn't leave me. I know none of you really left me.”  
  
The wind shrieked as it flew down the avenues of the dead, its claws catching on the trees that lined the streets. The rain fell in droves, the droplets cascading down the faces of the dead, falling almost like tears. Still, he curled closer in on himself, letting his feelings of grief and pain wash over him in waves, like the rain. He imagined a hand on his shoulder, resting there, he could almost feel the warmth of another human seeping through his coat and onto his skin. The last touch he’d had, he could still feel it, Grantaire’s hand in his, their fingers going white before R turned and pushed him out of the window before the soldiers had a chance to shoot. He’d landed on the cobbles, and his feet were already moving; he’d run away from the barricades, ignoring the pain in his left ankle. Though he’d regretted it ever since. He’d seen his friends die around him, powerless to stop it, and he now he saw them still. He’d let them die for him and he hadn’t even had the courtesy to die himself. He had lived as more of a shadow than a man since that day, moving about, never staying in one place longer than a week. He’d had no one; had hardly talked, his voice was rusty from disuse as he stumbled over his words, it cracked as his throat closed up in pain. He spoke to the little god that sat on Grantaire’s grave, stroking his fingers down it. Lichen had started to creep up on the white marble, and he scratched it away, uncaring that his fingers, cracked and red from the cold, started to bleed.  
  
The day slowly started to fade into night, though he could not see the sun as it disappeared; the clouds covered up the pale silver light of the moon. No stars appeared in the sky, their silent reassurance was absent from the ink black abyss that stretched endlessly above him. The leaves had already fallen from the trees, earlier than normal, drifting down from their boughs and falling on to the pavements, to be crushed beneath the feet of the wealthy of Paris. Ravens haunted the graveyard, Enjolras could see at least seven of the great black birds circling around him, waiting for something. He curled tighter in on himself, his knees almost touching his chest as his consciousness slowly slipped from his grip and he fell asleep, the cold blanketing itself over him.  
  
***  
  
R knew nothing, he didn't know who he was, what he’d been or where he’d come from. All he knew was where he was buried and the last moments of his life. He’d been shot, that much was clear to him, he could still feel the pain as the bullets pierced him; there were still blood stains on his shirt. He remembered the overwhelming feeling of having to save someone, a flash of gold hair, and a hand slipping out of his grasp, but that was it. He looked down at his hand and was almost startled to see that it was nearly completely see through. He looked about at the gravestones and wide streets, he knew where he was.  
  
“Montmartre,” he mumbled, tipping his head up and looking at the sky. “They put me in Montmartre.” The cemetery, if he was remembering correctly was one of the most expensive in Paris, someone must have loved him a whole lot. He turned and looked at the little marble angel that sat, placed on the top, he took a step closer; trying to ignore the feeling of weightlessness, he peered at the little statue and noticed that it was no angel after all. “Apollo.” He said, running a finger down the small god, he smiled; for some reason he could not recall the smiling face of the god called out to him.  
  
He was startled out of his reverie by a man with blond hair crunching up the gravel path to his grave. He had a black wool jacket on, though it was frayed and ripped, there was a small red, white and blue cockade on the breast of his jacket. His hair was limp, a mop of curls on his head, though it hung bedraggled; curling over his ears. His face was grimy and pale, wan, his skin slightly yellowed; his eyes dim and seemingly unseeing. R walked over to him, waving his hand in front of the man’s face, though he didn't react. R crouched down to get a good look at his face. His eyes were blue and may have once been beautiful, but now they seemed faded, a shadow of what they should have been. lined with deep black circles that sank like bruises into his skin. He was paler than the marble statues that surrounded him, he seems to be one of them, his face hard and cold; shaped by events that R could not remember. Because this man, though he looked more like a boy, must have known him; why else would he be crying by his grave. His lips were chapped and bitten, and split in more than one place; large red, angry scabs raised from them, one still bleeding sluggishly. The man started to mumble, unintelligible words spilling forth from his mouth, as tears rolled down his face. He moved forwards, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder, though he was sure the man couldn't feel it, he seemed to lean into the touch.  
  
“Who are you?” R whispered, as the man curled up by the white headstone and fell into an uneasy sleep.  
  
R sat next to him, his knees curled up to his chest as the rain continued to fall, and the sky continued to swirl in shades of grey and black. He didn't even notice the sun dipping below the horizon, he couldn't see the moon as it rose and no stars winked out of the black. As he sat, images flashed through his mind, one after the other.  
  
 _A group of people, including him, sat around several tables, each of them piled high with bits of paper and books. They were laughing and joking, drinking and singing, before someone who R couldn't see, entered the room and shouted a few words. He was surrounded by warmth and friendship, unbreakable as the bonds of family. He was joined at his table by a man with a mop of curly brown hair and green eyes, with darker skin than even R had, and proud high cheekbones. He wore a blue waistcoat and carried two bottles in his hands, one of which he handed to R._  
  
 _“Just ignore him, ‘Taire, he doesn't mean it,” the man said, placing a hand on R’s arm._  
  
 _“Sure he does, I don’t mind, it’s just his way,” R nodded over at the figure that was still out of his sight. “Thank you though, Courfeyrac.”_  
  
Each time he closed his eyes after that, he could see a different face, smiling and joking. He knew these people, these boys had been his friends.  His wonderful friends, the people who’d adopted each other and made a family in a dingy back room of a cafe. He found himself falling in love with all of them again, laughing at their jokes, each time he closed his eyes, he remembered something else, and he found himself laughing at jokes he’d heard before. He saw them all, one after the other, learned their names, learned all the same things about them; he almost felt like he was part of the group again, like he could walk into the Musain and be amongst them. Some part of him knew, though, that if he went to the Musain all he’d find was an empty shell, a monument to them. Though he had never seen the blond man, who was still sleeping on his grave, in his memories; he still had no idea who exactly he was.  
  
The rest of the night was torture, he did not sleep; oblivion was out of his reach, as though he was hanging off the edge of a cliff, unable to let go and fall into the abyss, but also unable to pull himself back from the brink of it. He teetered on the edge of reality, longing to slip forward but also yearning to come back; to comfort the man sleeping beside him. Memories continued to slip through him, they lingered for brief seconds that vanished into the aether, leaving him with more questions. He had seen a barricade looming between two buildings, and boys, his friends, on it with guns. There had been violence and blood, terror had reigned eternal. He’d left. He could see himself leaving, running away. Then he’d stopped and looked back at the smoking ruin of their ambition; he’d turned around and walked up the stairs of the ruined café. He had been blinded by an angel, he’d stepped forward and then the world had gone black.  
  


***  
  
The Morning dawned, bright and cold, the sun hanging in the sky white and pale, weak rays glittering through the haze. Enjolras could still ravens, though there was only one around now, it was sat perched on the top of a grave; black glittering eyes watching him. He picked himself up off the ground, ignoring the creak and ache in his bones. He scrabbled in a pile of leaves that lay on the ground between the last row of graves and the high brick walls of the cemetery. Under the damp rotting pile was a leather bag, it was rotten, it had been there for months under the detritus of the trees. He brushed off the mud and leaves, the smell of it winding its way up his nostrils, sitting there and refusing to leave. Inside the bag was a small collection of items; the head of a cane, carved in to the shape of a dog, a few books, one in Polish, a large leather bound sketch book. It was this that he took out of the bag, running his dirt covered fingers over the soft, supple cover. It had taken him a month to work up the courage to open it. He had tried several times, opening it and then closing it again when the memories over took him like a tidal wave, crushing him to the bottom of the ocean and holding him there as water poured in to and down his throat. Finally though, curiosity had overcome him and he’d opened the book. He knew now what waited for him, inside were the only pictures he had of his friends. They were spectacular likenesses too, he could look over them and be transported through time.  
  
“Why did you never tell me you were an artist?” He was still talking to Grantaire. Grantaire who’d gone where he could not follow, who’d left him in this world. Grantaire who he knew couldn't hear him. Grantaire who he was falling in love with the memory of.  
  
The trees whispered around him in the wind, answering him, or so he thought they would if they could; he did not speak their language though. He was alone now, even the raven had left him, he longed to hear a friendly human voice, at least someone who would listen to him and not try to hand him over to the police. He entertained the thought of leaving the country again, of getting out, maybe going to Spain; maybe even going to America. He’d thought about it three or four times before, always getting to the docks then watching the ships sail away, white sails glinting in the sun and then drifting out of view, disappearing off past the horizon. He couldn't bring himself to leave the country he should have died for. He would have been glad to do so; yet, he’d lead everyone else to their ends, and not himself. Sometimes he felt anger, hot and potent, welling up inside him; then it dissipated leaving behind it the numbness that consumed the very essence of his soul. It was like he was buried under several layers of frost, everything that made him himself was caked in ice and frozen till he could no longer feel it. He was an empty husk of everything he had once been.  
  
He looked at the charcoal drawings, taking in Courfeyrac’s smiling face, he’d been in the middle of a joke. Enjolras could tell, the way the corners of his mouth bunched up and his teeth poked out between his lips. Combeferre called him an imp, Enjolras had come to associate this face with laughter, proper laughter, the type that hurt. He brushed his fingers over the lines, taking care not smudge them. There was Joly and Bossuet, so in love, obviously talking about Musichetta. He’d not found her after. He’d assumed she’d left or been arrested. Their heads were pressed together, Bossuet’s lips brushing Joly’s ear; Joly’s arm on Bossuet’s. He could make out Joly’s fingers, ink stained and thin, but still there. The next page held drawings that hurt him most, pictures of him, there was one he’d looked at for hours. It had been drawn in the evening, the light that danced across his cheeks told him the sun was low on the horizon. He had fallen asleep on the sofa in the Musain, he’d worked himself past his breaking point. When he’d awoken, he had been aware of a warm weight on his chest, Gavroche had joined him. Grantaire had captured the few hours of peace they had snatched. Gavroche, small, young, and innocent. He had lead Gavroche to his death too. He could remember stumbling past the little body as he’d run from the barricade.  
  
***  
  
  
Grantaire watched as the man looked through the sketch book. He knew it was his; he now knew the faces of the people inside it. The men he had come to think of as brothers. He had a longing deep inside his soul to join them, to be where he belonged. Though something was tying him to this plane of existence, a piece of golden thread tying him to the man kneeling in front of him. He stroked his fingers through blond hair, even though he knew the other wouldn't feel it. He knelt next to the man, trying to imagine the feeling of the grass beneath him.  
  
“You are not alone,” his voice came out as a whisper like the wind, it drifted through the air, on a different level than the man existed on. “I am here.”  
  
***  
  
The breeze brushed his hair, shifting the dank curls, it whispered across his cheeks; almost like a voice, he supposed it did make him feel less alone. As soon as it was there, the breeze dissipated, moving out further in to the cemetery. Enjolras watched as the branches of the trees brushed together, friendly touches as they tangled in to each other. He slung the bag across his back, and left the corridors of the dead, trying to forget about everything that had happened to him, yet the memories always dragged him back. He was plagued by regret, it followed him everywhere never leaving; never letting him go.  
  
He walked on, through the streets of Paris, a lonely wanderer, exiled from everything that had made him who he was. Wanted posters fluttered about him in the wind, like absurd butterflies, though nothing like as beautiful. He caught one, the paper crumpling in his grip, the wind folded it in different directions though he wished he’d left it to the breeze. Grantaire stared out at him, badly sketched and a little obscured by grime but still noticeably Grantaire; crooked, wide nose, mop of curly hair, dark skin with an almost smile stretched across his lips. Enjolras forced himself to hold in the sob that threatened to break from him, he swallowed past the lump in his throat and dropped the poster, letting it sink in to a puddle that had stagnated in the gutter. He watched as the paper became soaked through with water, and the ink started to bleed out in to the rest of the paper, Grantaire’s face becoming distorted; fuzzy around the edges.  
  
***  
  
R saw the poster, and more memories assaulted him; he also realised that he couldn't remember walking to where he was, it was like he was somehow tied to the man in front of him. Though he couldn't quite figure out how or why. He watched as the man stopped and caught a poster that was being blown about in the wind.  
  
“Enjolras,”  he gasped, the realisation spiking through him like a red hot poker, “Enjolras, it can’t be.” He saw in his mind’s eye, a firing squad of guardsmen, cornering them against a window. He saw the bright flashes as the guns fired and felt his muscles tense as he pushed Enjolras out the window, flinging himself into the line of fire. He smelled the smoke and gunpowder as he felt the bullets pierce him, white hot and angry as they dug themselves in to his flesh. “Enjolras. Mon Ange. Mon Apollo.”  
  
He remembered everything, how he slowly but surely fell in love with the man in front of him. He could remember how he had longed to tell, to touch, to kiss, to hold him; he remembered the feeling like his world was collapsing in on itself when he realised that he could never let Enjolras know he felt. He felt once again, the waves of sadness, rolling in over him, like a tide that would not be stopped; no matter how hard he tried, he could not escape. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of cold winter wind, a breath he realised, he didn’t need to take.  
  
“Enjolras,” he whispered, the words flowing out of him as nothing more than a tendril of wind, “Enjolras. My love.”  
  
Enjolras didn't react, he didn't even turn around, he just stood on the pavement in the weak sunshine; the clouds were slowly clearing and weak rays of sun were shining on Enjolras’s once gold hair. Grantaire watched as Enjolras moved on from where the poster was dissolving in to the mud, he watched as something about Enjolras’s whole demeanour changed. Enjolras moved off into the streets, further into the city, where the houses loomed above them like white gates, framing the sky with pearlescent light. Grantaire followed him, matching his stumbling steps, glancing at him from time to time. Enjolras looked, for all the world like a broken man piecing himself back together; Grantaire knew the look in his eye from the rallies and meetings. It was hard as steel, like there was no force in the world that could move it. Enjolras moved through the arrondissements, going further into the centre of the city, where nature was caged in, unable to escape the labyrinth of houses.  
  
Grantaire mapped Enjolras’s path in his head; where his wandering before had been random, unfocussed with no real direction, now though Enjolras seemed to be heading somewhere in particular. Grantaire could feel a creeping sense of dread settle over him like a blanket, every nerve in his body was screaming at him to make Enjolras turn around. People were starting to fill the streets, sellers calling out; a man stopped yelling as Enjolras brushed past him.  
  
“Do I know you?” The man asked, looking at Enjolras with a questioning eye.   
  
“I’m sure you do not,” Enjolras smiled at him and moved to carry on.   
  
“Enjolras, what’re you doing?” Grantaire looked at him, tugging on his elbow as Enjolras moved towards the Champs de Elysee, and the very centre of Paris, “you’re going to get caught. You’re going to get killed.”  But it seemed that Enjolras didn't care, or he knew exactly what he was doing. “No.” Grantaire shouted as he moved to stand in Enjolras’s path, trying to block him, but Enjolras just moved through him. Tension built up in him as he watched Enjolras move on, powerless to stop him, as though he was watching through a pane of glass. He watched as clouds rolled in from the horizon, turning the world dark, as they broiled and swirled angrily above them; it looked as though a mighty storm was brewing. The trees that lined the wide streets started to bend and sway, almost in half as the wind howled down the street.   
  
Standing on a corner, guns resting on their left shoulders, were a group of national guardsmen. The feathers on their plumed hats waving about madly in the wind as they watched the crowds of people filling the street. Gentlemen with their canes, ladies with their towering hairdos, and street rats with grubby clothes and hungry eyes moved about them; the richer people kept a wide birth from Enjolras, stepping around him with a careful distance.   
  
“Enjolras, stop. Please,” Grantaire tried to stop him, tugging on his shoulder and shouting in his ear. He was desperately trying to change Enjolras’s direction as he moved closer towards the guards. Their dark blue uniforms looked almost black in the shadows of the clouds; the red on the lapels stood out against it, the bright copper buttons glistened on their chest’s like bright pinpoints of light. Grantaire tried and tried again, he shouted himself hoarse, so that he could feel his throat burn, there was nothing to be done; Enjolras was not going to be stopped. His steps were clear and unfaltering as he walked up to the guardsmen.  
  
“I have come to hand myself in,” Enjolras looked at the men, steadily, nothing about him looked like a man who had just walked to his own death.   
  
“You utter fool,” Grantaire scoffed, even as his throat closed up and tears threatened to fall from his eyes.   
  
“Julien Enjolras?” One of the guards asked, handing his gun over to the man on his right, and taking out a pair of shackles from the bag that was slung on his back.   
  
Enjolras didn't say anything, he just nodded and held out his wrists, the guards swarmed around him and he was lost to Grantaire’s view for a few moments. Then he emerged from the circle, hands shackled behind his back, the hard look in his eyes had not changed, if anything he looked more determined. He stood like a marble statue, proud even in this state of utter submission, his head was held high as the guards manhandled him towards the nearest station. Grantaire followed, a hollow feeling in his chest, there was nothing he could do; there would be no windows for him to push Enjolras out of this time, there were no more shots that he could take for the other man. He wanted to be angry, he wanted to shout at Enjolras, but really all he felt was peace; peace in knowing that his friend would be with him soon. He knew it was selfish of him, though in that moment, as he followed the guards, he didn't care.   
  
Enjolras was thrown in a cell, no more than two meters by two; there was a window at head height, small and barred. Grantaire was ever grateful that he was not solid, as he passed through the bars, he sat next to Enjolras and waited. The rain began to fall as the sun fell below the horizon, Paris crying for the last of the group that almost became its heroes. Enjolras watched as fat droplets made their way into his cell, streaming in through the open window and making a small puddle on the floor; Grantaire watched as his friend moved to the puddle and scooped up the water, washing some of the dirt off his face. Enjolras sighed as his face dripped, he then moved over to the driest corner of the cell and lay down to and closed his eyes.   
  
“I’m with you, Julien,” Grantaire said, sitting beside his friend, as he longed to hold him.   
  
In the end, there was no trial, it wasn't needed; everyone knew Enjolras was guilty. The next day, he was taken down to a courtyard, and lined up against the brick wall. He stood proud and tall, chin lifted into the air, hair glistening in the light. Grantaire stood beside him, like he had done in the Musain, he silently linked his hand with Enjolras; in the late evening light, he could have sworn that Enjolras’s mouth curled slightly as he moved his fingers. They stood together, one last time, facing down the barrels of seven guns, and Grantaire was powerless to do anything to stop it. He hummed a tune, hoping it filtered through the wind to Enjolras; the words came back to him slowly, as though they were being fed to him through a small gap in his mind.   
  
“Drink with me to times gone by, to the life that used to be,” he sang softly, letting his words be picked up by the breeze that moved through the courtyard. “At the shrine of friendship never say die.”   
  
The guardsmen took aim. Their commander made a downward motion with his hand. Enjolras held his head steady, looking into the maw, his eyes cold and a smile on his lips. They fired. Enjolras seemed to stumble, he let out a gush of air, his eyes widening with shock as he fell to his knees. Red bloomed on the white shirt, staining it scarlet, like the flag Enjolras had once waved. The blood moved like a river, slowly encompassing every part of the shirt. Enjolras’s breath stuttered and his face turned marble white in pain, his hands shook but he pushed himself back up so he was facing the guards.   
  
“Oh my friends, my friends,” he said, blood trickling out of his mouth, stark against his pure skin, as he wavered, “forgive me.” The words were choked out, accompanied by more blood; it spattered on the floor in front of R.  
  
“There is nothing to forgive,” Grantaire knelt in front of him, his hand tucking Enjolras’s hair behind his ear.   
  
“Ranae,” Enjolras’s eyes focussed on Grantaire, “R, is that you?”  
  
“It is,” R smiled.  
  
“Together, then, if you permit it?” Enjolras’s eyes searched his.  
  
“Together,” Grantaire nodded, “I am waiting for you.”  
  
“I only regret that I have but one life to loose for my country,” Enjolras shouted, looking at the guardsmen, facing them down as the strength left his bones; his eyes never lost their hard, their passion or their steely determination. Not until the very end.   
  
“Ranae Grantaire, even in death you follow me,” Enjolras looked about him, noticing nothing but Grantaire standing in front of him.   
  
“I said I’d follow you in to the dark,  it doesn't matter that it took you a little longer, or that for once, maybe I was ahead,” Grantaire took a step forward.   
  
“You did.” Enjolras looked at him, “you did.”  
  
They looked at each other, it seemed as though it was the first time they truly saw who the other was. The end had been their beginning. A new start, a second chance. They took no notice of their surroundings as Grantaire stepped forward, so close that Enjolras could feel the heat radiating from him. His hands came up and around Enjolras’s neck, twining his fingers in the hair at the back. Their faces bent towards each other, as if of their own accord, as though this was second nature to them. Grantaire nudged Enjolras’s nose to the side and slid their lips together, as the rest of their bodies pressed close, hips to hips; chest to chest; Enjolras moved his hands around R’s body crushing him closer still. Enjolras felt as though he was walking on air, like Grantaire was kissing the life back in to him.  
  
“Okay?” Grantaire pulled back slightly, looking Enjolras in the eye, his hand still in the other’s hair.  
  
“Yes, yes I’m okay.” Enjolras smiled and kissed Grantaire again, laughing and smiling into the kiss, in a way he hadn't in so long.   
  
“Finally,” Courfeyrac said, leaning into Combeferre, “when do we tell them that we’re here?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is only like my second fic for this pairing so please be nice, also if you could comment and kudos that would be awesome!! Thanks for reading; I hope you enjoyed this, as much as you can anyway...


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